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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381142">vampyre</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true'>nothing_is_beautiful_and_true</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Drama, F/M, Hate Sex, Magical Realism, Meta Analysis, Rough Sex, Self-Reflection, Soul-Searching, Unreliable Narrator, but we love him anyway, how many references can I make in a single one-shot, season 6 AU, self-actualization, spike is full of shit, the answer is a lot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:35:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy tells Spike to leave. He listens.</p><p>But he plans on coming back. He always does. Not without enlisting some help, first, though. </p><p>Or: what it means to be a vampire, what it means to be ensouled, and what it means to be Spike.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spike/Buffy Summers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>vampyre</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so there I was, drunk and listening to bohemian WAPsody as one does, reflecting on my completed buffy marathon. and I was struck by just how disappointing ensouled spike was. even on angel, where he comes into himself more, they never really took the character in a truly interesting direction like the radical change was surely meant to imply. I'm pretty indifferent to spike HAVING to have a soul or not, personally, but I found myself sitting down and contemplating how I would've handled it. and from there, several concepts spiraled into fruition, including a longer project that I'm working on for nano, and this thing.</p><p>as a heads up, there's a lot of homoerotic undercurrents, because I've been watching way too many analysis videos on queer culture and the horror genre lmao. finally, much of the inspiration stems from the game kentucky route zero, so if you like ambient, atmospheric stories, you should check it out.</p><p>takes place roughly between/around wrecked and gone. I didn't care enough to decide exactly when because it's not important</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Drac, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You still owe me eleven quid.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Help me find my soul and I’ll consider us square. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If you don’t I’ll show you how I came by my namesake. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Spike </em>
</p><p>“As he passed the curator on his way to the door he looked carefully at him as he came abreast, and the question rankled. Why? The castle was filled with the excitement of the nativity. All was alive with conjecture. There was no control. Rumor swept through the household. Everywhere, in passage, archway, cloister, refectory, kitchen, dormitory, and hall it was the same. Why had he chosen the unenthusiastic Rottcodd? And then, in a flash, he realized. He must have subconsciously known that the news would be new to no one else; that Rottcodd was virgin soil for his message, Rottcodd the curator who lived alone among the Bright Carvings was the only one whom he could vent tidings without jeopardizing his sullen dignity, and to whom although the knowledge would give rise to but little enthusiasm it would at least be new…” </p><p>He’d spent more time alive reading than actually living. These days he was lucky if he finished the first chapter of a book. Why bother with words when pretty pictures flashed by quickly on a silver screen? Prosthetic memory. </p><p>Spike was drunk. </p><p>He snapped the book shut, spoken word still trembling in the dirty air of the car, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. No patience anymore. Couldn’t stand standing still. And yet the Initiative and then the Slayer had nailed his balls to the walls of Sunnydale as surely as any sinner to a cross. </p><p>He’d been crying. It wasn’t as bad as with Dru, but it still hurt like a bitch. God, the Slayer was such a bitch. Give her the shag of her bloody life and then order <em> him </em> out of <em> her </em> life?! He’d show her, she’d rue the day, sanctimonious little—</p><p><em> My friend. -- It is good to hear from you again. I anxiously await our reunion beyond the scope of Sunnydale. There is a cinema theater on the outskirts of the city playing </em> Nosferatu <em> at three ante meridian tomorrow</em>. <em> I trust your time in the Valley of the Sun has been a happy one, and anticipate many tales of debauchery and violence.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Your Friend,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> DRACULA” </em>
</p><p>Tosser. </p><p>The theater in question was rundown and abandoned. Its name, if it ever had one, had long been stripped away, leaving behind naked plaster. There were no times or movies displayed above the box office, the windows shuttered and the doors barred. Places didn’t have souls but as Spike rolled through the deserted parking lot he knew this place was soulless. Sucked right out, probably by a board of directors. Or lawyers. Something appropriately evil regardless. </p><p>He spilled out the front door of the DeSoto, a heap of empty bottles cascading alongside him. Glass clattered against hard asphalt; glass thudded against dead flesh. This was all the Slayer’s fault. Spike really needed to stop falling in love with women who wouldn’t love him back. That bitch. He’d show her.</p><p>The show must go on. Spike remembered opening night for the original <em> Star Wars. </em> He and Dru ate some people waiting in line and stole their tickets. Whoever they’d eaten had been higher than kites, making it all seem even more surreal. Those special effects sure had been something else. Want, take, have. </p><p>He had nothing now. It’d all turned to ash in his mouth. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Does this word not sound to you like </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the midnight cry of the Deathbird? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Beware that you say it, else the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> images of life fade into shadows, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> haunting dreams rise from your heart </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and nourish themselves on your blood. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mankind, Spike decided, would be happier overall if they all became eunuchs. Give that infamous British stiff upper lip and just chop ‘em off. Save their sex from the trouble that was women.</p><p>Dracula hadn’t yet arrived. Spike stumbled to his feet and staggered into the theater, breaking in with a crunch of his steel-shod boots. The door hung sadly off its hinges like the broken wing of a bird, and he almost felt sorry for it. </p><p>Someone had crowned the entrance with pink roses. </p><p>Spike giggle-snorted. </p><p>A man named Martin waited behind the ticket booth. He had a deck of tarot cards stained with blood, idly shuffling them in his hands. He was wizened and withered and yet flash, snick, smooth as the smoothest poker player. Martin and Clem would’ve gotten along smashingly. </p><p>“You’ve come to see Nosferatu?” Martin asked. </p><p>“Come to get my bloody soul back, you ignorant berk.”</p><p>“No need to be so testy,” Martin replied. “I never wanted this job. Prefer digging graves, I do.” </p><p>“Don’t we all?” </p><p>Spike strutted past him, putting many decades as an alcoholic to the test. He was proud to say he only wobbled a little bit. Pass. B+ at the worst. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Why have you killed them… the beautiful flowers?!?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t his fault. </p><p>She kissed him. She called him a thing. She fucked him. </p><p>The chip stopped working on her because she’d come back wrong. None of that was his fault. When was anyone going to give him a lick of credit?</p><p>Not his fault. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The venus flytrap rested with its jaws open wide. A sweet-smelling scent filled the air. The fly crept into its maw, and its maw slammed shut like the bars of a jail cell. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Spike padded into the dark theater. The roof had collapsed, rubble coating the amphitheater in a layer of dust. He half-expected a young Salvatore to come scampering around a corner, followed by Alfredo, and set the film rolling. Spike brushed away a bar of rotted plywood and took a front-row seat.</p><p><em> Nosferatu </em>wasn’t playing. Crummy ripoff anyway. Orlok. Like anyone would be thick enough to buy that name change. Spike slumped, staring vacantly at the blank screen, and eventually drifted off, dreaming of rusted towers and dead slayers, of slayers with dead eyes and broken homes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The Master is nigh </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Master is nigh!? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“William.”</p><p>Spike woke to find Dracula at his throat. </p><p>“Look, I already tried the whole poofter song and dance with Angelus, not interested in trying again with you.” Spike struck out at Dracula, who dissolved into smoke. Stupid Gypsy tricks. “Don’t make me find a cock and a sunrise, pillock.”</p><p>“Charming as ever, William.” Even with night vision, it was difficult to see Dracula in the derelict movie theater. Very little natural light pierced the gloom. What did remain reflected off Dracula’s shiny cat-like eyes. “You left me waiting…? Waiting too long? I hope you are not wasting my time.”</p><p>Spike smacked his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe this’s all an elaborate ploy to get me back what ’m owed.”</p><p>Dracula tilted his head, which annoyed Spike, because that was <em>his</em> quirk. </p><p>“I might have believed that, but that is actually a half-decent plan, and everyone knows William the Bloody is terrible at plotting.”</p><p>“I’ll plot you.” Not high on the list of stellar comebacks, but Spike was smashed. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. </p><p>“Though it shall cost some effort,” Dracula mused aloud, brassing Spike off. “A bit of sweat and perhaps…? A little blood?”</p><p>“Stop quoting the bloody ripoff, it’s unseemly.”</p><p>“I rather enjoyed it. The Germans have such stark views of the world. And alas, poor Ellen…” Dracula made a solemn gesture; Spike shared his mourning. </p><p>“Better than all those useless sods combined. ‘Specially her prat of a husband. He shoulda been the one to go. ‘S not right,” Spike muttered. “Not right at all.” </p><p>“What does a vampire care for right or wrong?” Dracula smiled without showing his teeth. “And thus, the crux of the matter. The soul. Yours. William. You know what you ask?” </p><p>“Wrote the letter, didn’t I?” </p><p>Dracula reached out and stroked Spike’s cheek. Cold, dead fingers outlined Spike’s razor-sharp jaw. Buffy had touched him last, burning with fire and life. He already missed her like an ache in his breast. Maybe this was a mistake. If he could just make her understand that he was <em> trying </em>… </p><p>“You know not what you ask.” Dracula drew back, nodding. He seemed to have reached an understanding within himself. “I will show you. I do owe you, after all. Eleven quid for a soul? I suppose it is a fair trade.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of Vampyres, Ghastly Spirits, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witchcraft, and the Seven Deadly Sins </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> From Belial’s Seed sprang forth the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vampyre Nosferatu, one who does live and </em>
</p><p>
  <em> feed himself from the Blood of Mankind. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unredeemed he dwells in fearsome </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Caverns, Sepulchres, and Coffins, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> such as may be filled with accursed </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Earth from the Fields of the Black Death. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Why they couldn’t take the DeSoto was a mystery beyond Spike’s understanding. Where Dracula got his hands on a horse-drawn carriage was another one. Probably snatched it from some Renaissance Faire. Spike avoided master vampires because of crap like this. Vain, foolish creatures. Humans were much more sensible, and wasn’t that a lark and a half?  </p><p>The night stretched out unbroken before them. They will withdraw into a place without language or streets; Paris, Texas. Spike did love a good road trip movie. He and Dru went through a phase where they’d only pick up street hustlers. My Own Private Idaho but with less gay and more Shakespeare. Although if River Phoenix ever offered up his neck Spike wouldn’t say no.</p><p>He wondered if Buffy had even noticed he’d left.</p><p>“You know what struck me about America, the first time I visited?” Dracula asked. Spike grunted. “How large yet empty most of it is. Vacuous. There is so much nothing.” </p><p>After Dru broke up with him, Spike had driven to Las Vegas. There was a section of highway on the way, a section full of space just existing. It felt like standing still even as the car barrelled along at 90 miles per hour. The mountains were frozen on the horizon, never growing larger or smaller. Minutes would extend on and on before another sign of life drove past. If not for the DeSoto’s painted windows Spike might’ve fallen into the heavens. </p><p>The night stretched out unbroken before them. The horses knickered and shied away whenever a car rumbled into view, but they were well-trained. The carriage trembled and swayed, groaning like a man dying, as they barreled down the highway.</p><p>Martin drove the carriage. He was convinced Dracula wasn’t a vampire.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Travel quickly, travel well, young friend, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> into the land of phantoms. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I travel far, far away into the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> land of ghosts and robbers. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Spike drew the curtains closed, shutting out the night. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. The quiet was beginning to crawl under his skin. Spike started humming. First, a little GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, then some Rock N’ Roll High School. Finally:</p><p>“Casey Jones, climbed out the window!” Not punk, but it suited the scene. “Casey Jones, orders in his hand; Casey Jones, leanin’ out the window, takin’ a trip to the Promised Land.”</p><p>The hum turned into a full-throated bellow of the old ditty. Spike’s thick cockney brogue strained under the passion. Over a century and it still faltered from time to time. Like squirrels. Never could quite get the hang of squirrels. </p><p>“How is the Slayer, anyway?” Dracula asked when Spike paused to draw in an unnecessary breath. “She has such a lovely neck.”</p><p>Spike seized him by the collar of his ridiculously poncy shirt and swung, fist crunching into wood. He howled with impotent rage. Dracula’s laughter was mocking as he rematerialized.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> In the Night this same Nosferatu may latch </em>
</p><p>
  <em> his claws onto his Victim and suck for his </em>
</p><p>
  <em> own infernal Life-potion their Blood. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Take heed lest his Shadow, like an Incubus, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> encumber you with gruesome Dreams. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was a passage of time. Days? Time meant little to the undead. Spike sobered up and started doubting his decision more and more with each rolling mile. This was a mistake. This wasn’t his fault. Mistake. Fault. Buffy wouldn’t like that. A steel drum beating in his head over and over. Who needed a soul when you had women to drive you round the bend?</p><p>He was hungry. Rats gnawed at his stomach.</p><p>When day rose, they pulled off the road and found shelter to sleep in. Martin fed and watered the horses while Dracula curled up in his stupid coffin with its stupid dirt. </p><p>“And you still think he’s not a vampire?” Spike snorted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He sat huddled in the far corner away from any creeping sunlight.</p><p>“I dig graves,” Martin said. “I know vampires. Seen one with my own two eyes. Watched the mob throw her into the pit. That’s not a vampire.”</p><p>Night fell and Dracula ate Martin. Spike couldn’t pretend to care. Buffy wasn’t there so it didn’t count. When Dracula offered up leftovers Spike hesitated. Buffy wasn’t there. </p><p>It wasn’t his fault. They were in the middle of the bloody desert. And he was hungry. The fool was already dead. He had it coming. </p><p>Martin tasted like a raisin in the sun.</p><p>“A dream deferred,” Spike mumbled.</p><p>“What does being a vampire mean to you, William?” Dracula asked. </p><p>“A twenty-sided die of only ones and twenties.” </p><p>“Might as well be a coin, then.”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Do you remember Clarimonde?”</p><p>“Clarimonde! Such sin, such wit.” Spike groaned. “She deserved better than to be betrayed by some nonce of a priest.” </p><p>“And Carmilla?”</p><p>“Carmilla, Carmilla.” Spike shook his head. “Red would’ve liked that one.” </p><p>“Madame Cabanel?”</p><p>“Not a vampire.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>They both laughed. </p><p>“‘S funny how they all start with C,” Spike noted idly. “Must be cause they're all cunts.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You cannot go any further, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the werewolf roams through the woods. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dracula drove the carriage, leaving Spike alone with his thoughts. The wood creaked in protest against the strain of travel. Clip, clop, clip-clop went the horses’ hooves. A sullen wind moaned along the curtain trim. The moon waxed full, bleaching the desert liquid silver.  </p><p>He rather felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball. And Dracula as his fairy godmother? Fuck. </p><p>They stopped at a run-down cantina not far off the highway. It was small and cramped and dirty, relying on rural charm to compensate for lack of basic hygiene. The wood floor and tables were chipped and scratched. Worn. Newspaper clippings featuring dark-haired, dark-skinned men working a railroad line adorned the walls, as well as posters of Maradonna and Pelé and Blanco.</p><p>Most everyone there spoke Spanish—luckily, both Spike and Dracula were fluent. A small gringo (the worst kind of gringo; he had dreadlocks) strummed his guitar up on the stage. He plucked at the strings in a pleasant enough way, but he only seemed to know three chords. </p><p>Drinks started flowing and so did Spike’s mouth. </p><p>“‘S all a metaphor,” he said. “‘S vice and sin and man at his worst. The predator. The addict. Fear of disease, ‘specially sexual disease and mental illness, of consumption and death. Fear of the other, of homosexuality; fear of the outsider.”</p><p>“We are foreigners,” Dracula said thoughtfully. </p><p>“Strangers in a strange land.” Spike giggled, spinning around and around again in his stool. The world revolved in pulsing shades of neon. </p><p>“There is more to the world than metaphor. It is a place rich with clean soil.”</p><p>Spike rolled his eyes. Dracula’s bizarre obsessions cast a bad name on their entire lot.</p><p>“I know you.” Three-Chord Gringo approached, watching them closely. </p><p>He smelled of wolf’s blood, the musk strong enough to overwhelm the smoke and alcohol swirling through the cantina. Spike tilted his head. There <em> was </em> something familiar about the boy. Perhaps they’d met once upon a midnight clear. </p><p>“He’s searching for his soul,” Dracula said. </p><p>“Oi! Beam it up into the night sky like the bloody bat signal while you’re at it, why don’t you?” Spike sulked. </p><p>Three-Chord Gringo held himself with a stillness that would endear him to any vampire. Shame about the dreads. He’d definitely realize that particular mistake ten years down the line. </p><p>“Oz.”</p><p>“The great and powerful?” Spike laughed at his own stale joke. He was a vampire. Everyone expected him to reach for low-hanging fruit, might as well oblige them every so often.</p><p>Oz simply nodded and moved toward the pool table. Spike followed as though hooked around the navel. A new trio started harmonizing together. The song was shit but it reminded him of the Bronze: nostalgia tasted almost as good as blood. </p><p>“You were in Sunnydale,” Spike said, the memory bursting free. “With Red.”</p><p>Before she started batting for the other team. Before he fell in love with Buffy. Unlife was now defined in terms of AB. Positive and negative. </p><p>Oz nodded again. He broke the table first. They played without speaking. Pool really was a man’s game: the phallic nature of the cue and the balls going in holes. Subtext, motherfucker, do you speak it? </p><p>Spike broke the second game. </p><p>“What’s your opinion on hummus?” Oz asked. </p><p>Thrown, Spike whiffed his strike on the cue ball. He swore. “S’okay. Bit bland for my taste.”</p><p>A knowing gleam flared in Oz’s dark gaze.</p><p>Another game passed. This had been fun once. So many things had been fun once. The first time Spike fell in love had sparked his joie de vivre; now love snuffed it out. Maybe love was overrated. Or maybe it would rise again from the ashes. Like a phoenix.</p><p>Sometimes Spike hated being such a bloody romantic. </p><p>“Sometimes I think about going back,” Oz said. “But without Willow, I’m not sure Sunnydale has anything for me.”</p><p>Sometimes Spike had a fleeting notion, a fancy none of them really existed when the Scoobies weren’t in the room. Sunnydale was Buffy’s stage and they were all props for the play. No wonder Angel left.</p><p>Something something metaphor. Analogy? He could never remember the difference these days.</p><p>“The Bronze,” Spike tried. “They have these, this, this onion blossom thing. They’re a bloody revelation.” </p><p>Had, anyway. Before the troll came along. And whose fault was that? Right: the Scoobies. Bunch of wankers. Half the messes in Sunnydale started by them, but they were big damn heroes, so they avoided any blame.</p><p>“Their chicken wings are good too,” Oz said, thoughtful. “Beer, not so much.” </p><p>Spike nodded enthusiastically in agreement. Why couldn’t this guy have stuck around and Harris pulled a runner instead?  </p><p>Oz sunk his shot. “A soul.”</p><p>Ah, he’d been buttering old Spike up. Well, Spike could keep his mouth shut like a steel trap when necessary. </p><p>“Gonna rub it in the Slayer’s self-righteous, pouty face that I <em> can </em> love, and that it <em> is </em>real. She thinks ‘m a bloody animal! And, first off, some animals are right intelligent—I’d take a dolphin over Harris any day of the week and twice on Sunday! And, and second off, she’s an ungrateful bitch!” The bile spewed out, a cathartic stream of consciousness. “The whole lot of them are! All summer, there I am, watching the niblet, biggest fuckin’ bad that ever did evil forced to play babysitter, and did I ever complain? Ever get so much as a thank you? I was mourning too! No, that’s not right. Me ‘n Dawn, we were the only one’s mourning, while the others scarpered off into the night to re-enact John 11.” </p><p>Spike’s ranting continued. Every indignity of the past however many years spilled to the forefront. He cursed the Slayer, he cursed the Soobies, he cursed Captain Cardboard, he cursed the Initiative, he cursed Dru, and Angelus, and Darla, and the Master and the Annointed One and Dracula and The Powers That Sodding Be and everyone who had ever wronged Spike or looked at him funny or talked about him behind his back or didn’t love him for not being good enough. How dare they. </p><p>He lost that round. Badly. </p><p>Spike slammed the cue on the pool table and stormed outside, where a payphone waited. He had a sudden, desperate, overwhelming desire to hear Buffy’s voice again. </p><p>“William.” Dracula leaned against the cantina struts. His lips were dark and wet. “I would not recommend that.”</p><p>Spike ignored him. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and then picked up with a click. “Hello?”</p><p>“Lemme speak to your sis, Niblet.”</p><p>“Spike!” Dawn shouted. The elation in her shriek was both flattering and ear-shattering.</p><p>A clatter followed by loud arguing and feedback like the phone was being wrestled over could be heard, until:</p><p>“Spike?” Buffy hissed. “Where the hell have you been?”</p><p>God, she was such a bossy bint. Spike growled.</p><p>“Where? Where?! You were the one all”—his voice went up an octave, mockingly—“That’s it, I want you out of my life, out of my work, out of my home! Get out, get out!” </p><p>A hesitation. </p><p>“I…” </p><p>A crumb. That was all he’d ever needed. Spike slammed the phone down, spinning around and striding toward the carriage. Bugger this.</p><p>“If you leave, William, I consider my debt repaid,” Dracula called out. Spike flipped him off.</p><p>Something cold and wet struck the back of Spike’s head. Stunned, he stopped as though shot. The gelatinous mass dripped down his neck, oozing into the seams of his duster. Raising a hand, Spike touched the mysterious substance. He had a sneaking suspicion and confirmed it by putting the stuff in his mouth.</p><p>“... Hummus?”</p><p>“They never see it coming.” Oz sounded deeply content with life in general. Spike wanted to rip his head off by the ends of those god awful white boy dreads. He took it all back. Harris staying had been a blessing in disguise. </p><p>Wiping at the shit smearing into his hair and shaking it away into the harsh desert night in overdramatic, overexaggerated hand motions—they needed to see his righteous fury as clearly and nonverbally as possible—he stomped back over to them. </p><p>“Three words or less. Got a lady waiting for me.”</p><p>She still wanted him. Soul or no soul. Dirty little Slayer, enjoying rolling about in the muck. Spike bit back a wolfish grin.</p><p>“The Slayer.” Dracula’s brows were in danger of vanishing into his hairline; he looked disgusted. “Really?” </p><p>“The bloody fuck did you think I wanted my soul for?!” Spike shouted. </p><p>His good mood immediately evaporated. The constant judgment on all sides was exhausting. His love life was his own personal business, even if she was the killer of his kind, okay, fine, no one was perfect, and if everyone could just shut up and shove off about it—!  </p><p>“A soul should never be for the benefit of others.” Now Dracula was looking at him like he was an idiot. </p><p>Oz hopped up on the railing and dipped a finger into what remained of his hummus, watching them intently. He sniffed the air, briefly twisting to glance behind him at a couple of young Latino men chain-smoking together. They stared back before reluctantly moving further out of earshot.</p><p>“Oh, really? So that’s why Captain Forehead has his whole help the helpless shtick going on, huh? Huh?!” </p><p>Dracula closed his eyes. “In all my years, never have I met a clan so self-absorbed as the Aurellians. I blame Heinrich. Far too rigid and traditional. It is incestuous.” His eyes snapped open. “Pray tell, William, how do you think the Romani crafted their curse? It is a special sort of torture that would take many a human mind—even, perhaps, the mind of a monster.” </p><p>Spike felt like he’d been poleaxed. “You?”</p><p>Oz raised his eyebrows but otherwise took it rather well. </p><p>“The Romani have never deserved half the misfortune that has fallen upon them.” A trace of bitterness entered Dracula’s voice. “Angelus should count himself lucky indeed: if they had allowed me my original revenge...”</p><p>There was a brief slip of the glamour that held together Dracula’s pretty boy, faux-Byronic image. Pure, animalistic rage boiled beneath the surface. It was a seething abyss tethered to this mortal coil by the implacable cruelty of Vlad the Impaler’s soul. Perhaps the monster had never been the demon at all. </p><p>Spike remembered once wandering through a collapsed coal mine with Dru, searching for survivors to pick off. She had sobbed of drowned bats and glittering red stars peering out from within the darkness. They walked with ghosts that night, and he’d held her hand, dreaming for the first time in a long time about being buried alive.</p><p>“Angelus is the exception, not the rule,” Dracula said. “He knows nothing. He understands nothing. And neither do you. You have not even begun... now make your choice—live in ignorance or die with knowledge.”</p><p>The garden or the fruit.</p><p>What would Buffy want him to choose?</p><p>He knew the answer already, of course. It was why he’d set out in the first place. But what did he want to do? Before, it hadn’t mattered. Suddenly it seemed vitally important.</p><p>Spike had no idea. Everything he thought he’d understood about souls and vampires had just been turned on its head. Although to be fair, he’d never cared enough to try and understand until recently. Both a perk and a drawback of constant forward motion.</p><p>He glanced at Oz. Oz was licking the last of his hummus out from the plastic cup. Useless git.</p><p>“I fell in love again,” Oz said, suddenly, albeit muffled. “After Willow. And then I fell out of love. It happens. You should always love yourself, though. Feels nice.”</p><p>Spike opened and closed his mouth, at a complete loss.</p><p>“I like Buffy.” Oz was nodding along to the stilted cadence of his own words. He tossed his trash in the garbage can. “I don’t like the way you talk about her. Or to her. And I don’t like that you once threatened to shove a broken bottle in my ex-girlfriend's face. But if you’re willing to try and find your soul, you can’t be all bad. Doors open and doors close. You’re the one who chooses to walk through them. I learned that in Tibet.”</p><p>Spike threw up his hands.</p><p>“Oh, for the love of—fine. I’ll go. Bloody hell, you people should be recruiters for the army.” </p><p>Both Dracula and Oz physically recoiled at that. Served them right. The payback tasted sweet, even if it didn’t quite get all the fucking hummus out of Spike’s hair. Why had no one warned him that assault by chickpea would play a role in his soul searching? </p><p>Angelus always had it easier. Or at least, appropriately evil, with appropriately divine retribution for a creature of the night. Have a spot of fun with some marginalized group and then get a soul shoved up his stuffy arse. Sit around eating rats until someone came along and dragged him out into his so-called Slayer screwing destiny. Experience a moment of true happiness and then get sent to hell. It was all very dramatic. And Catholic. </p><p>Spike’s lip curled. Meanwhile, organs were dropped on his spine and hummus was tossed at his head. The laugh track practically played itself. </p><p>“We have dawdled long enough, I imagine.” Dracula imperiously swept past Spike. “Shall we dance with wolves?”</p><p>“This better not be some bloody Indian thing. And if it is, no bears!” Spike complained. </p><p>But Dracula ignored him, smirking at Oz, who was smiling back. Humming softly, fur sprouted rapidly up and down the short man’s body. He hunched, turning bow-legged, mouth elongating into a muzzle as bones cracked and shifted. </p><p>Dracula’s transformation was far less graphic—a swish of cloak, a sleight of hand, and there, the striped hyena. The horses nickered and pranced, straining against their restraints, eyes rolling back. They were ignored, the werewolf and the hyena bounding deeper into the desert, beyond the reach of humanity.</p><p>This was lunacy. Spike sniggered at the pun. Then he straightened, loping after them. He’d hopped on the crazy train a long time ago.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Not so hasty, young friend! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No one outruns their fate. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They ran for a long time. </p><p>When the sun was close to rising, they sought shelter, finding it in a dinghy half-submerged in the dunes. With a little more luck maybe they’d also stumble across Kate Barlow’s buried treasure.</p><p>Oz went hunting for him, bringing back a lizard. It tasted awful but Spike was too hungry to care. Still, he’d never complain about pig’s blood ever again once this ordeal was over.</p><p>“Why you helpin’ me, anyway? What’s it to you?” Spike asked Oz.</p><p>“I’m not who I was when I left Sunnydale.”</p><p>And that was that.</p><p>They resumed running at night.</p><p>It all blurred together after a while. Spike couldn’t recall the last time he’d pushed his body this hard. The torture from Glory didn’t really count, because it had happened to him. This was something he inflicted upon himself. He could stop and turn back at any time. It would’ve been easier if Spike knew where the finish line lay. He’d always been goal-oriented. The end just had to be in sight, right? Soon? </p><p>They slept in an abandoned bus, beached on its side like a stranded whale. Salvatore and Alfredo were there again, and they played <em> Nosferatu</em>, the image reflecting on the sands. Spike had never bothered to learn Italian; they spoke but their words were incomprehensible to him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And this one here? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> a polyp with tentacles </em>
</p><p>
  <em> transparent... almost incorporeal </em>
</p><p>
  <em> nearly just a phantom </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When he woke, Spike saw someone had written the words I AM GOD onto the dust streaked windows of the bus. </p><p>The next night they couldn’t find shelter, so Oz buried them in the sands. Spike dreamed of a church on a hill, a tape recorder playing the song his mother had sung to him as a wee child. He went inside and ate the choir boys, and the stained glass windows of Christ smiled, watching on with serene grace as he drenched the pews in red.  </p><p>Oz dug them out once the sun set again. </p><p>It would’ve been easy to give up. He was tired and hungry and windburned but stubborn as hell. So Spike kept putting one foot in front of the other.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I know, however, that her soul heard </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the cry of the Deathbird that night  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Already was Nosferatu </em>
</p><p>
  <em> spreading his wings. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” Dracula said.</p><p>A cave. A cave in the footholds of the Rocky Mountains. </p><p>“How very platonic.” Spike’s voice was raw from disuse. The dry air had cracked his lips and he tasted the grit of sand in his mouth. “Now what?”</p><p>They rolled a stone in front of the entrance, Oz on the outside, and Spike sealed inside with Dracula. The cave had become a tomb. From Platonism to Christianity. Lovely. Next, they’d be partaking in bloody existentialism, with a Sisyphus allegory thrown into the mix to give it that anachronistic sparkle. </p><p>The darkness was absolute. Even with his keen vision, Spike saw nothing. Faint rustling and the crumble of slowly eroding rock reached his ears; rust and Dracula’s scent—sickness, damp earth—reached his nose.</p><p>“So what now?” Spike growled. He sensed the movement of air circling around him. “We hold hands and do the hokey pokey?” </p><p>“Not I.” Stillness. The darkness was oppressive. Spike hadn’t been truly blind like this since becoming a vampire. It brought back bad memories. He could hear Dracula dragging something through the thin dirt. “And not the hokey pokey. Ring around the Rosie.” </p><p>“You’re joking.” Panic surged through Spike, wild and uncontained. Just fucking curse him already, for the love of all things unholy. </p><p>“I never joke.” </p><p>This was true. Another reason Spike avoided other master vampires on principle. They were duller than dishwater. </p><p>“Do I have to?” </p><p>He wasn’t whining. William the Bloody didn’t whine. But he’d maybe spent too much time hanging around teenagers lately; they were a bad influence. </p><p>In response, talons dug into Spike’s wrist. He froze as twin pinpricks tore open his artery. It tickled. Spike giggled, cock hardening, unable to help himself even as terror gripped his heart. </p><p>“Use your words, William.”</p><p>There was no thrall underlying the command, but Spike scrambled to comply anyway:</p><p>“Ring-a-ring-o’-roses,</p><p>A pocket full of posies,</p><p>A-tishoo! A-tishoo!</p><p>We all fall down.” </p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (stands motionlessly at the end of the hall) </em>
</p><p>Their song was playing on the jukebox. It wrapped around Spike like a warm, comforting blanket. As a child, he’d had a blankie with his name embroidered into the edges, a soft, baby blue color. He kept it late into his adolescent years until it was so worn and tattered his mother threw it out. </p><p>He’d cried afterward, inconsolable. </p><p>“May I take your order?” She stood before him now, pale, holding the pen and paper in trembling hands, the liver spots on her forearms stark in the fluorescent lighting. Her name tag, <em> Anne</em>, was pinned just above her heart. </p><p>“I’m supposed to take care of you, Mum.” Spike felt so useless. </p><p>“It’s all right. I like the uniform.” His mother’s laugh turned into a cough; she had to look away. “Are you going to order?”</p><p>“Don’t right know what I want. You recommend anything?”</p><p>“You always say that.” Anne touched his cheek. Her skin was so thin, paper-thin, fingers gnarled with arthritis. “I wish you wouldn’t speak so crudely, William.”</p><p>“William is dead.” But his voice softened. “Please just choose for me, Mother.”</p><p>A bird settled on the cash register. It was a pigeon, figure plump, feathers grey and matted except for the faint green shimmer about its neck. It watched Spike with beady eyes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Forasmuch as no other </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Deliverance is available, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> it may be that a Woman truly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> without sin make the Vampyre </em>
</p><p>
  <em> forget the first Crowing of the Cock </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Anne brought him peach cobbler. He closed his eyes as he ate, savoring the rich filling and thick crust. Heat oozed down his throat, flushing through his body with a rush like an echo of blood. The other Aurellians had never understood Spike’s obsession with food. Bloody traditionalists, all of them. What was the point of eternal life if you didn’t enjoy living in the world? </p><p>"Save the last dance for me?" he asked.</p><p>They shared a sad, secretive smile before Anne moved on down to another booth, another customer. Each step she took, she took as though the next would be her last, as though she might crumble into dust.</p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (climbs into a coffin and closes the lid) </em>
</p><p>“... shall we let them eat cake?” </p><p>Halfrek and Anyanka tittered. Spike just smiled, his arm tightening around Cecily—no, Halfrek’s waist. This was right. His first love. His true love. As it should be, as it should’ve always been. Although the whole vengeance demon reveal rather took some of the mystique away. He felt like he’d never really known Ce-Halfrek at all. </p><p>A dove flew into the window. White feathers drifted through the darkness as it sank out of view, neck twisted and broken. They ignored it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His Grace, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> wishes to purchase a lovely house </em>
</p><p>
  <em> in our little town? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Always want to have their cake and eat it too.” Spike rested his chin on Halfrek’s shoulder. She pushed him away with a giggle, fluffing her dark curls. </p><p>“Right!” Anyanka delicately sampled a slice of cheese. A feast surrounded them; the varied delicacies glistened in the flickering candlelight. Moscow was burning. “It’s all, vengeance is evil! Unless it’s a vampire, of course. Because systematically wiping out a group of people is perfectly fine if they’re soulless. Violence but only ever on <em> their </em>terms. Humans have no respect for the dead anymore, I must say.”</p><p>Anyanka waved the expensive cutlery about to emphasize her point.</p><p>“The hypocrisy.” Halfrek nodded her agreement at the same time Spike said, “Here, here.”</p><p>He raised his glass of wine to toast their evilness, accidentally spilling some down the front of Halfrek’s dress in the process. She shrieked, jumping to her feet and batting him away. The blood red stain swiftly spread across the stark white bodice.</p><p>“You oaf! Look what you’ve done!” Halfrek cried.</p><p>Spike planned on apologizing, he really did, but her tone made him bristle. He bit out, sullen and sulky, “Didn’t mean nothing by it.”</p><p>“Who cares what you <em> meant</em>! My dress is still ruined!” Halfrek held a hand against her brow, looking set to faint dead away. </p><p>Anyanka stared at Spike reproachfully. He slunk down low in his seat, wishing he could go out and get fast food or something. A meal this rich sat heavily on the stomach. </p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (rises from his coffin) </em>
</p><p>They were relaxing on the beach. The sky was iron grey and so was the ocean, broken only by cresting whitecaps. Drusilla stared up at the clouds and he knew she saw stars. It was one of the good days.</p><p>Miss Edith and the other dolls had their heads stuck in the sand, forming a perverse circle around Drusilla. Their porcelain legs stood straight up in the air, dresses falling toward their waists, revealing either knickers or a smooth, sexless joining of limbs. Drusilla had told him not to look, that it wouldn’t be proper.</p><p>“There’s a bull and a matador dueling in the sky,” she whispered. Drusilla wore a pink and white polka dot bikini, statuesque skin framed by the black towel. Her dark hair tumbled carelessly around her shoulders. </p><p>Spike rested on his side, quietly watching her. But she was so beautiful. “Any particular reason for that, pet?”</p><p>“Want to shower us in ash, they do. Cover us from head to toe.”</p><p>He took care of his girls. Always had. Spike looked out for them, and it was something he was proud of, something that had always belonged to him, in life and unlife, that wasn’t rooted in violence. Even if sometimes things came along and made it complicated or he maybe bollixed it up a bit. But usually, Spike managed to fix the problems his plans going sideways inevitably caused and kept his girls safe. </p><p>The whitecaps weren’t whitecaps at all. They were seagulls, hovering over the waves. Many, many seagulls. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> One dreams heavily here </em>
</p><p>
  <em> in this desolate castle, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> but do not be alarmed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He dug his hand into the sand, letting the wet, heavy grains fall through his fingers. Spike grabbed another fistful, maneuvering through the doll minefield, drizzling it over Drusilla’s thigh. She turned her head, a faint smile quirking along her lips, peering at him between Miss Edith's legs.</p><p>“Naughty, naughty, my dark prince.” </p><p>He splayed a large hand across her knee. The skin was cool, pulled taught against bone, and smooth as sin. “Are you happy?”</p><p>“Miss mummy and daddy,” she said after a pause. “Want us to be a family again.” </p><p>Spike’s fist plowed into the sand, good mood evaporating with a snarl. “Yeah, well, I want the Beatles to get back together. Not gonna fucking happen.” </p><p>Why wasn’t he ever good enough on his own? He was the entire bloody package, Drusilla’s forever and always. She should be content to be with him and only him but she wasn’t and Spike didn’t understand why. What could she possibly need from Darla and Angelus when she had all of him already? </p><p>Drusilla whimpered and whined, shrinking away. </p><p>“‘M sorry, love,” Spike said quickly. “I just—sorry. Y’know how I get sometimes.”</p><p>She turned her back on him.</p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (stares out the window at ELLEN) </em>
</p><p>Angelus was shirtless. </p><p>Sweat clung to the ridges of his shoulders, dripping down his spine, riding the line of his slacks. The tattoo on his back had bloomed into a dragon, rippling and snarling as he worked on his latest masterpiece. Street graffiti was a new form of artistic expression for the old chap, one he threw himself into with a fair bit of gusto.</p><p>An old-fashioned jukebox sat tucked away in a corner of the alley, playing music from Don Giovanni. Angelus worked patiently, far more patiently than Spike had ever been, determined to get everything down to the most minute detail <em> just right</em>. It had to be perfect. They’d made it through the first act of the opera when Angelus, at last, drew back, hands on his hips, flashing Spike a saucy grin. </p><p>“What do you think, boyo?”</p><p>The mural read, in painstaking calligraphy painted every color of the rainbow:</p><p>BEWARE</p><p>OF</p><p>DOG</p><p>“Seems a bit poofy if you ask me.”</p><p>“Needs the blood of the innocent,” Angelus decided, completely ignoring Spike. And the sky was blue. “Pollock might’ve been onto something after all.”</p><p>He made a flicking gesture with his hand, as though imagining the spray of red dotting across the wall. Spike could almost see it himself. Angelus always did have a vision and panache Spike envied.</p><p>“Modern art.” Spike scoffed. Angelus bobbed his head in agreement. </p><p>“Dreadful. No respect for the dead.”</p><p>A train whistle blew in the distance. </p><p>They shared a lip curl. It almost felt like old times. Angelus continued, “I started losing my accent the day I got my soul. Slowly, day by day, and then I moved to the New World. And that was that. </p><p>“American exceptionalism.” He spread out his arms, dramatically, flexing his biceps like an evil, half-naked batman, thumbs pointed down. “From beneath you, it devours. I wonder where they got it from, eh?” </p><p>“I suspect the French.” Spike lit a cigarette. Angelus laughed sardonically. “Did you ever consider that maybe your accent’s just utter shit?” </p><p>Angelus cocked his head. Spike shivered, looking away. If they didn’t make eye contact maybe he’d forget Spike was there. Ignore your problems and hope they’d disappear. </p><p>“You think you’re better than me.” Angelus laughed again, disbelieving this time.</p><p>Of course he did. Spike was a valiant warrior of darkness, a gentleman and a rebel both. He had a code of honor, he had loyalty, intelligence and insight, he had self-control; above all else, he had love. Angelus was a wanker with a fetish for being pretentious capable of emoting maybe five facial expressions total. </p><p>“Course I don’t.” </p><p>Smoke swirled around him like a shield. </p><p>Angelus snorted. “Oooh, look at me, I’m William the Bloody; I might be the vampire equivalent of Stalin, but at least I’m not Hitler!”</p><p>“Prefer to think of myself as more of a Lenin, personally,” Spike muttered. He dropped the cigarette butt, grinding it under his heel.</p><p>“God, you’re pathetic.” Angelus returned to his mural.</p><p>“I,” Spike said, a touch indignant, “know how to have a spot of fun. Unlike some people.” </p><p>“Spikey, Spikey. When will you learn? Yes, that’s why you’re so miserable, because of all the fun you have. And we’re not people—we’re metaphors.” Angelus placed his hand under his chin. He still had a knack for making Spike feel positively minuscule. “I should’ve staked you while you were stuck in that wheelchair. No, I should’ve nailed you to the wheelchair and let you desiccate into a starved corpse. I’d call it: He Died as He Lived. </p><p>“Pain, suffering, hard work… now that’s real art.” </p><p>“American exceptionalism.” </p><p>“You’re starting to get it. Want a treat, boyo?” </p><p>
  <em> ELLEN: (opens the window) </em>
</p><p>The cameras flashed. Spike struck a pose. Harmony batted her long lashes beside him. She wore Alexander McQueen, a sheer white top and black snakeskin dress, blonde hair a confection of elaborate curls. Spike was garbed in a simple dark suit, which struck him as rather boring and bland.  </p><p>“Oh, you both are just naturals,” Andrew gushed. He then went off on a tangent about the Fantastic Four. Harmony beamed. Jonathan and Warren nodded their agreement. “But, um, Spike, you're inching out of the lighting.” </p><p>Before Spike could move or speak, Harmony was tugging him in the indicated direction. He growled, irritated; he could bloody well listen on his own. She giggled. </p><p>“Oh, blondie bear! You’re so silly.”</p><p>Her voice grated on his nerves. So loud, so high-pitched, so absent of any interesting thoughts. She was beneath him. </p><p>Warren stared at Harmony’s boobs. Spike refrained from the sudden, strong urge to flay him alive. An owl rested on each of the trio’s heads, eyes closed and fast asleep. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He wants a right fine, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> deserted house? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That house just across from yours. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Offer him that one!? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The photoshoot continued. Spike went through the motions, even though he desperately wished they’d stop pointing those bloody cameras his way. He was like an animal in a cage at the zoo, put on display to be gawked at.</p><p>Pose. Flash. Pose. Flash. </p><p>And Harmony. Existing. In the same space as him. Each time she spoke it was like a spring winding tighter and tighter and tighter and tight—</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Huh?” Harmony broke off mid-question. The trio began furiously taking pictures. </p><p>“I said, shut the fuck up, you daft bint.” Spike jerked out of her grip.</p><p>“Hey.” Jonathan lowered his camera. “Isn’t that a little, uh, unnecessary—?”</p><p>“Shut up!” Spike roared. “Shut up, shut up, shutupshutup!” </p><p>The camera hid Jonathan’s face once more. Harmony looked hurt and then outraged.</p><p>“Blondie bear!” She stamped her foot. “We’ve talked about this. I’ve been reading books, you know, and I’m a strong, independent woman who deserves respect—”</p><p>Spike burst out laughing. “No, Harm. What you are is a stupid whore.”</p><p>Jonathan and Andrew paused, exchanging uncomfortable looks. But Warren kept snapping pictures, biting his lip with intense concentration. </p><p>Harmony’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. “I-I-I’m not... s-stupid.” </p><p>Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. It made her mascara run and soaked her white top. They could see her nipples through her shirt, large and dark as dollar coins. Warren began working the zipper of his fly.</p><p>“Yes, you are.” Spike laughed. “You’re a stupid, worthless slut who goes around opening her legs to anyone with a big enough cock. You’re not special. You bring nothing of value to the world. The best thing you ever did was die, and the worst was coming back from the dead.”</p><p>Harmony let out a small sob, shoulders shaking as she dug her hands into her thighs. Warren had abandoned all pretense and was stroking himself openly.</p><p>Once Spike would’ve taken a gleeful sort of pleasure in her pain. Now he just felt empty. But he wasn’t sorry. She’d spurned his affections at his lowest point, turned him out when he needed support most, driving him into the arms of his enemy. Spike had fallen in love with the Slayer because of Harmony. </p><p>He’d never forgive her for that. </p><p><em> COUNT: (shadow creeps along the wall toward ELLEN’s bedroom) </em> </p><p>They barreled into the door. It smashed apart with a shriek of protest. Spike thought of metaphors, then, of walking or not walking through doors; but what if someone else threw you through the door, or knocked the door down before you decided whether you wanted to do it yourself? What then? What—</p><p>He punched Buffy in the face. She backhanded him in retaliation, sending him crashing into the wall. The house groaned around them. Plaster fell about their heads, swirling like snow. Spike laid very still among the wreckage. Buffy stormed over, grabbing him by the lapels of his duster and hauling him to his feet. </p><p>“Why won’t you let me help you?” Frustration welled up, and Spike shoved her away. “I can help!”</p><p>“Oh, trust me, Spikey.” Buffy laughed, hollow, but her eyes burned in a way they hadn’t since the resurrection. “You help. You help by being the only thing in the world that disgusts me more than I disgust myself.”  </p><p>He flinched. “Yeah, well, you’re bloody welcome.”</p><p>As much as it hurt, he’d show her that between the two of them, he, Spike, evil big bad, actually had a lick of manner—</p><p>Her mouth was on his and Spike was on fire. They were still fighting, wrestling out of their clothes, and apparently it was taking too long for Buffy, impatient chit, because she ripped her own knickers and jammed herself onto his <em> oh god so hot oh god so tight ohgod so buffy ohgodbuffy</em>.</p><p>She took him against the wall, she took him on the floor, she took him in the basement. He was being devoured whole, for the first time he could pour all of himself into someone and they could give it all back and then some.</p><p>The house was breaking apart from the strain of their wanton fucking. Spike saw a murder of crows through the gaps and cracks in the ceiling. They swirled, writhing, eyes bright and gleaming as they blocked out the moon and stars.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...and the Truth bore witness </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to the Miracle: at the same hour, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the Great Death ceased </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> as the Shadow of the Deathbird </em>
</p><p>
  <em> was scattered before the victorious </em>
</p><p>
  <em> beams of the living Sun. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He bit his tongue as he came and tasted blood. Buffy rode him, tits bouncing, sweat dripping down her tan skin, between the valley of her breasts, tracing the ribs poking out her sides—fuck, she was so thin—rode him right through his orgasm, forcing him to stay erect. Spike wished, in a moment of pure spite, that he wasn’t a vampire so he’d go flaccid; deprive her of leeching pleasure from him like a parasite.</p><p>The thought shocked him. Never, in the century-plus he’d lived (or unlived, really) had Spike ever regretted being a vampire. It was the greatest moment of his life; a glorious reckoning. Only Buffy and her gang of Scoobies could inspire such self-loathing within himself. </p><p>“God, I wish you’d stayed dead.” </p><p>And it was true, wasn’t it? From the moment Harris asked, <em> “... tell me when you saw Buffy alive, that wasn't the happiest moment of your entire existence” </em>it had been true. The fantasy, collapsing and reviving and collapsing again in the wake of her soft scent and bloody knuckles, came crashing down around Spike’s feet.</p><p>All those times spent developing patrol routes with Red, all those times spent playing pool with Harris, all those times spent fretting over bills with Anya, all those times spent sorting out insurance claims with Rupert, all those times spent watching sapphic movies with Glinda and Niblet—all of it, a fucking lie. And in the wake of Buffy’s resurrection he was cast off, no longer convenient; resigned to the crypt and the isolation, his help forgotten and unappreciated once more. </p><p>Would it really have killed any of them to say thank you? </p><p>A promise to a lady was like a chip in a lot of ways. A binary. On or off. Pain or pleasure. Good or evil. Dead or alive. Her memory had been a cross for him to drape his sins over, the peak of a mountain he could strive toward yet never quite reach, a boulder rolling to the top of the hill only to fall back down to the bottom again and again. </p><p>Buffy in the flesh was a walking mess of contradictions, saying yes one minute and no the next, saying no and meaning yes and saying yes and meaning no, slingshotting between empathy and rage and comradeship and disgust and compassion and apathy, making Spike feel more like a man and then in the same breath making him feel more like an animal, a dirty thing, a piece of trash blown by the wayside—</p><p>She twisted his nipple, bringing tears to his eyes and a howl to his lips, her other hand clawing down his chest. Dark blood welled up in the wounds, bracken from a lack of pulse. Buffy said, bitterly, “Join the club. There’s wine tasting on Tuesdays.”</p><p>Then she fucked Spike so hard he forgot his own name. The house fell apart, blown down by the big bad wolf.  </p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (looks up from drinking at ELLEN’s neck) </em>
</p><p>The sun was bright. </p><p>Angel clocked Spike in the nose. </p><p>“Ow! Fuck!” He fell on his rump with a thump. </p><p>The coliseum surrounded them. A faint wind stirred a spike of dust; it whipped about Angel’s coattails. He was getting a fine brood on, brow quartered and drawn as he frowned at Spike. The roar of a train passing could be heard nearby. </p><p>The coliseum was empty. They were alone with their ghosts. Sunlight streamed overhead in the noonday sky; Spike wondered if he’d freckle.   </p><p>“How much more am I gonna have to put up with?” Spike complained. “Surely I’ve earned my soul by now.”</p><p>Angel looked pained. He’d now gone through two of his five expressions, although really Angelus was the one with five: Angel had, like, three. And frankly, they were all variations of the same theme. “It’s not about earning, Spike. It’s about learning.”  </p><p>“Well, fuck that.” Spike sprang to his feet. “Let’s fight.”</p><p>Angel released a long-suffering sigh. Then he shook his head. “Who am I fooling?”</p><p>And just like that, they were in a no-holds-barred, drag-down, knuckle-bruising fight. Angel was stronger but Spike was faster, darting and buzzing about, laughing maniacally. Angel seemed to be enjoying himself too, in that Angel-y way of his, smile grim but focused.  </p><p>“It’s sexy, innit?” Spike grinned, dancing out of Angel’s reach. “The violence. The thrill of it all.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Make me.”</p><p>Angel lashed out, nailing Spike in the ribs with his boot. Spike collapsed and Angel fell upon him, fists heavy like hammers. Still laughing, Spike tried to bat him away, but it was as ineffectual as a reed wall before a hurricane. Angel pounded him one-handed into the dry earth, gameface coming to the fore, snarling with carefully controlled rage as his other hand smothered Spike’s mouth. </p><p>“Are you not entertained?!” Angel shouted in his best Russel Crowe impression. They even looked similar, oh ye of the heavy brow and immovable face. Spike couldn’t help but feel thankful, though, as Angel sat back and spread his arms wide. </p><p>“You know they love it. Love me.” Spike spat, saliva mixing with blood, dribbling down Angel’s coat. He jerked his head, adam’s apple bobbing, gesturing toward the invisible crowd. “Drives you mad, doesn’t it? That ‘m unashamed, that I revel in it, and that’s what they want, what they crave: to love and be loved without shame.”</p><p>Angel’s hands fell to his sides. He cocked his head. “Spike, when are you going to realize this isn’t your story?”</p><p>Spike’s jaw dropped. Then he screamed, screamed so loud it sent Angel scrambling, hands over his ears, gameface twisted into a facsimile of a grimace. It was the keening scream of a dying animal.</p><p>“I AM A PERSON!”</p><p>Spike found his feet, advancing forward. His voice dropped low, steadily crescendoing in volume as he said, “Not a metaphor. Not a thing. <em> I am a person</em>. A piece of shit, sure, but a person just the same. I walk. I talk. I smoke. I fuck. I’m gonna be a teacher when the sun comes up. The city’s been on fire since you moved in, and I no longer dream of dragons. Maybe this wasn’t my story once. But you lot invited me in, put me on the guest list, gave me a spot on the opening credits, however you wanna call it, here I am. And 'm here to stay. You’ll just have to figure out how to deal with that.</p><p>“I don’t think I’m better than you. In fact, I know, now more than ever, that I’m the scum of the earth. But I’m real…” Spike sucked in his mangled lower lip. He looked at Angel, who stared back, implacable as ever. “... you’re just a fantasy.”</p><p>
  <em> COUNT: (vanishes in a puff of smoke) </em>
</p><p>They were riding the train together. The English countryside slid past. Everything was smaller, here, grainier, contained; filled with gently rolling green hills compared to the dun-colored flatness of the States. Spike rested his cheek against the window, watching his undead breath fog the glass. </p><p>William sat across from him, polishing his glasses. “I say, this trip has become rather protracted, would you not agree?” </p><p>Spike slowly straightened. He took in William’s prim visage, his sandy curls, his rigid Victorian garb. William avoided making eye contact. </p><p>He’d hated this man for so long. Left him behind, became Spike, became better in every way, strong and free and sexual. It felt like returning to Sunnydale, painful yet necessary.  </p><p>“Have you read Rip Van Winkle?” Spike asked, already knowing the answer. </p><p>“... I have,” William said, uncertain. “I find the way he speaks about his wife terribly uncouth.”</p><p>“The Catskills are right brilliant in the winter,” Spike mused. </p><p>“I apologize; might I know you?”</p><p>“Think maybe ‘m in love with you,” Spike admitted. </p><p>“O-oh. That is… terribly improper.”</p><p>“Sorry.” </p><p>William was blushing, a ruddy hue creeping along his cheekbones. Even before dying he’d always been pale. He fidgeted, toying with his glasses. </p><p>“It doesn’t have to hurt,” Spike felt compelled to add, “won’t hurt a bit if you don’t want it to.”</p><p>“No, I-I… I rather believe it will hurt a lot. That is the way of things.”</p><p>But William seemed uncertain. He stole a shy glance Spike’s way. Spike shrugged and William elaborated, “Would it not be unfair?”</p><p>“Life’s not fair.” Spike was leaning forward now, prowling and predatory, boxing William in. He slid his arm up against the wall, slithering to come and stand between William’s legs.</p><p>The train cart swayed and rumbled as they sped along the tracks.</p><p>Spike pressed soft kisses against William’s adam’s apple, smiling slightly at the responding scandalized gasp. He found the jugular and licked it, gently, much like a nurse wiping alcohol on a vein in preparation to insert an IV. William mumbled something incomprehensible; Spike could smell his arousal. </p><p>Ridges and fangs crunching to the forefront, Spike delicately bit down and began sucking. William moaned as Spike killed him a second time. A cock crowed. The passenger train careened into a stalled freighter and exploded.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Blood is life! Blood is life!!!!? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Blood! Your precious blood! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shall we stay up together for awhile? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“How long was I out?”</p><p>“It rained in Sunnydale.”</p><p>“No! Really?”</p><p>“It rained the day I arrived as well, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a melodramatic ponce. And the pup?”</p><p>“I hungered, so I attempted to devour him. He did not appreciate it, and staked me.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“I got better.”</p><p>“For fuck's sake, don't quote Monty Python at me. It's disturbing.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Master... the Master!? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Master... is... dead? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The broken down movie theater and the DeSoto were as Spike had left them. The only difference was some of the trash that’d spilled onto the ground had been scattered by the wind. He stood there, gazing upon the scenery, feeling the entirety of the century he’d lived pressing down on his shoulders. </p><p>On the return trip, he’d found a booth and taken a picture of himself. His roots had grown out, hair a mess of curls, skin waxen and skull-like from lack of blood. Spike needed a haircut. He had a discount with a demon barber in Sunnydale. Maybe he’d stop bleaching his hair. The possibilities were infinite.  </p><p>Carefully folding up his duster, Spike tucked it away in the trunk. Then he searched around for some garbage bags. Quest successful, he returned and began the unenviable task of cleaning his car.</p><p>It took a long time. But there was something comforting in the menial task. Spike could putter about on autopilot as the night passed him by. He found the book he’d tossed aside what felt like another lifetime ago and absently rifled a thumb along the pages. Spike had missed reading.</p><p>He set the book on the passenger seat and resumed cleaning. Spike couldn’t finish everything then and there; he’d need to stop by a car wash to scrub the blood and piss and vomit out of the leather. Christ, he’d really let himself go after Dru dumped him. There was a time when Spike would’ve killed someone for dirtying his precious DeSoto. </p><p>The realization gave him pause.</p><p>Sighing, Spike traced the frame of the car, working his way around to the passenger seat. The garbage bags sat huddled by the theater entrance like a clutch of eggs. He let himself think of Buffy for the first time; he hoped she was eating properly. </p><p>Opening the door, Spike sat down, pulling the book out and flipping to where he left off. He didn’t have to flip for long. Running a finger along the words painted across the page, Spike opened his mouth:  </p><p>“... Having solved the problem in his mind and having realized in a dullish way that the conclusion was particularly mundane and uninspired, and that there was no question of his soul calling along the corridors and up the stairs to the soul of Rottcodd, Mr. Flay in a thin straddling manner moved along the passages of the north wing and down the curve of stone steps that led to the stone quadrangle, feeling the while a curious disillusion, a sense of having suffered a loss of dignity, and a feeling of being thankful that his visit to Rottcodd had been unobserved and that Rottcodd himself was well hidden from the world in the Hall of the Bright Carvings.”</p>
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